But at last the fire from the Redmen on the bluff slackened and grew
silent. The ammunition was exhausted. There was a movement in the
group of braves. Crazy Horse and Bald Coyote turned to Four Hair-
Brushes, who sat his steed Atalanta, last winner of the last Grand
National, with all the old careless elegance of the Row.
"Four Hair-Brushes," said Crazy Horse (and a tear rolled down his
painted cheek), "nought is left but flight."
"Then fly," said Four Hair-Brushes, languidly, lighting a cigarette,
which he took from a diamond-studded gold etui, the gift of the
Kaiser in old days.
"Nay, not without the White Chief," said Bald Coyote; and he seized
the reins of Four Hair-Brushes, to lead him from that stricken
field.
"Vous etes trop vieux jeu, mon ami," murmured Four Hair-Brushes, "je
ne suis ni Edouard II., ni Charles Edouard e Culloden. Quatre-
brosses meurt, mais il ne se rend pas."
The Indian released his hold, baffled by the erudition and the calm
courage of his captain.
"I make tracks," he said; and, swinging round so that his horse
concealed his body, he galloped down the bluff, and through the
American cavalry, scattering death from the arrows which he loosed
under his horse's neck.
Four Hair-Brushes was alone.
Unarmed, as ever, he sat, save for the hunting-whip in his right
hand.
"Scalp him!" yelled the Friendly Crows.
"Nay, take him alive: a seemlier knight never backed steed!" cried
the gallant Americans.
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